Page 31 of Reeves

For a few minutes it almost feels normal.

After Dad was killed, Ridge was wound so tight, I thought he might snap in half. Somehow, love managed to sand the edges off him. I wouldn’t have believed that was possible a year ago.

When the meeting finally breaks, we stand and shake hands like two men closing a deal.

But the pressure behind the offer stays with me. Ridge wants me here. Grounded. Contained.

I step into the elevator and ride down in silence.

By the time the doors open into the bright noise of the lobby, the familiar itch has already started under my skin.

Walking to my truck, I pull out my phone, wanting a diversion.

Gabe’s name sits near the top of my recent calls. I tap it and lift the phone to my ear.

It rings.

I unlock the door and slide behind the wheel, the leather hot through my shirt. I start the engine and let it idle.

It keeps ringing.

I rest my head back against the seat and watch a couple cross in front of the hood, arguing. I put the phone on speaker, and the tinny rings fill the cab.

It goes to voicemail.

I lower the phone and stare at the screen for a second before dropping it into the center console.

I start the car and don’t think about where I’m going when I put it in drive and pull into traffic.

The city falls away one block at a time.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel as the highway opens up and New Orleans shrinks in the rearview mirror. The pressure that built in my chest at Stone headquarters loosens with each mile marker.

I tell myself I’m just driving. Clearing my head. It’s the same excuse I used the last two times I came out here and drove past her house like a fucking stalker.

Traffic thins as I cross the state line. The sky burns with the last light of the day, streaks of orange and purple catching on the water between the trees.

I should have turned around twenty miles back. That was the plan when I left the city.

Instead, the road keeps pulling south, and I let it.

Curiosity, maybe. Old habit. A place that used to matter.

My grip shifts on the wheel.

I told her exactly who I was six years ago. There was no hiding it. No house, no family, no kid running around calling me Dad.

Nothing about that has changed.

So whatever was in that letter doesn’t have anything to do with me now.

That holds for a while.

Until I remember how long that envelope sat in the back of a drawer, waiting.

The thought slips in before I can stop it.

If it mattered enough for her to write it, why didn’t she say anything when I left?